Nor a grisly stack of coffins, piled up high along the wall;
You never came across a skull, nor stumbled on a bone,
Nor a human frame in lattice-work, left rattling there alone;
Your nerves would never suffer there from sudden shocks or “turns”—
There was nothing but a score or two of classic little urns,
Which held their sacred contents, sealed in elegant reserve,
Like a ghastly kind of jam, or supernatural preserve.
You never, never would suspect that in those graceful rows,
The entire Spriggins ancestry could peacefully repose.
’Tis a plan that’s most convenient, thus within a little space,